More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
At dinner one day, I snapped and asked what the hell the point of life was if I was too old for a dog.
We sat quietly, my old man and me, looking down at our plates and eating Mother’s food. Listening to you ask her about the crops and the animals. I was fascinated by how easily you could make conversation; you didn’t seem to need to stop and think about what to say at all. I sipped my
I can almost always escape into sleep. It’s the place where everything is still as it should be, where I still have a say.
but he turns his attention back to the lures. Trailing a finger over them, one after another. Careful, I want to tell him, but I hold my tongue. I wish I could put a hand on his head and ruffle his thinning hair.
I know you thought I was a wimp for not
being able to shoot an animal, but it was like I could feel their fear pulsing through me, and every time I wrapped my finger around the trigger, something seemed to shift inside. Almost as though I were aiming at myself. I told you I didn’t
Hans is exactly the same, always running around without any real idea of where he’s going. Young folks today just aren’t right; they
race about like they’ve only got a week left to live.
wish I’d appreciated that moment more at the time. I should have asked you about the different flowers, or at least paid more attention. Harebell, clover, oxeye daisies and bird’s-foot trefoil. That’s what I wrote to you: that I want to hear you say the name of every single blade of grass and plant that’s ever grown. That enough is enough, that I’m done.
“That’s fine. You can be a stinky old man if you want,” she says, getting up from the table. She makes her way over to the fridge and takes out a bar of chocolate. “But stinky old men need sweet treats, right?”
“I’ve heard stinky old men are pretty good at crosswords.”
Our son is sitting with the electricity bill in his hands. Doesn’t he realize that I’m going to die soon?
want to hurt me. “I know you’re worried about Bo,” says Ingrid. I hold my breath. “But we’ve agreed that Sixten will stay here for the time being, and I’ll take care of him. It’s as simple as that.”
“Honestly, Ellinor should come to see you every week. Just think how clean you’d be.”
“Why don’t we do this more often?” I ask. Johanna smiles and meets my eyes. “Oh, Bo. You say the same thing every time.”
“How can it be better for me when it’s not what I want?”
Someone else will take care of Sixten. Someone other than me. But I’m the only one who knows how he likes his ears squeezed.
Nothing matters anymore, after all. Sixten is gone. A sense of
emptiness spreads through me as the battle-ax rinses me down. The more she scrubs with that ridiculous bloody sponge of hers, the redder my skin becomes, the more of me disappears. By
It’s always there, the Sixten-shaped hole. A nothingness that has amplified the emptiness you left behind. It’s strange, but when Hans took Sixten I started missing you even more. Almost as though it were you he’d taken. My ears strain for the sound of claws on the floor, for a soft yawn. For the sound of your knitting needles, gently clicking together. But all I can hear is the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock.
Right as he closes the door behind him, more quietly than usual, the tears start falling.
But what she doesn’t understand is that refusing is all I can do.
down on the tray. It doesn’t matter what Johanna or anyone else says: I’m going to keep refusing, because I know it bothers Hans. I’ve seen all the ways he’s been trying to make me forgive him, but I’m not going to bloody well give in. Behind where
The August sunlight makes the dust shimmer, and I can’t work out how I got into this situation. How could we have raised a son who would hurt me like this? One who makes everything so hard.
“Had some left over after dinner yesterday,” she said a day or two ago, when she set the plate down in front of me. I poked at it with my fork. “And I can guarantee Hans didn’t have a thing to do with it,” she said as she poured me a glass of milk. “Because I shot it myself.” I put the plate into the microwave and find myself
But when I lower my head to the pillow, the doubt rears its head again. Without warning, the anger is replaced by the clawing feeling in my chest. What have I done to deserve this? If you were here, maybe you would be able to explain. You always knew more about this sort of thing than me. I reach for the jar containing your scarf. I don’t even try to open it, just let it drop down by my side where Sixten used to lie.
hold my own gaze in the mirror and try to shake off the worries. I never used to do this, dwelling on things and getting myself all worked up, but every single part of my life is delicate now. I feel a sudden fondness for the old man in the mirror. It’s not bloody easy, being human.
I’m so proud to have such a capable and determined son, someone who is willing to make an effort for his father. If you were here, you’d be proud, too. But
I think about Sixten and I think about Hans. He’s been on the phone several times since we found out about Ture’s death last week, and I’m powerless to resist. It was as though something inside me opened when I heard the news, and I haven’t been able to hold back. Haven’t been able to shut him out. To be angry anymore. But the fact remains that he took Sixten. I can’t forget that. For a moment or
“It’ll be okay, though,” she says, brushing a crumb from her thigh. “In the end, it’ll be okay. For all of us.”
But none of that matters now.
The church was almost full that day, and I turned around and let my eyes drift among the men from the sawmill in Ranviken. You were sitting by my side, and I was so proud. Let them wonder how the hell I’d managed to snare a girl as beautiful as you, I thought.
Maybe I should have just come out and asked what he wanted, but, as ever, the words got caught in my throat and the anger took over.
Beside me, Hans coughs. I’ve tried so hard to rid myself of my father, but he’s still right there inside me, causing trouble. I take a deep breath. I’m not going to let him haunt me today, that’s for sure. Today is all about Ture.
Right then, I feel a weight on my right thigh. Through blurry eyes, I see Hans’s hand on my leg. Resting there the way my hand used to rest on his shoulder after we’d spent a little too long out fishing in clothes that weren’t quite warm enough. I’m struck by how alike they are, our hands. How old his hand looks. I put mine on top of his.
We stand quietly, the man stroking his neat beard. I’m struck by how clean he is. The kind of person who makes you feel filthy, even though you aren’t.
My thoughts turn to mazariner, to Ture. I don’t really believe it, but I hope we’ll see each other soon. That he’ll meet me somewhere. Somewhere where I’ll eventually see you again, too.
“I’ll put this here. Can you feel it on your cheek?” Ingrid asks as your scent hits my nose. She straightens the scarf, fluffing it up around my throat and cheek. The room disappears. All that exists is the soft fabric and your scent. I put everything into it and take a deep breath. Hold the air in my lungs until it forces itself out and I drift off again.
My mother taught me all the important things in life. About dogs and animals, things I couldn’t have lived without.
But then Hans puts a hand on my forehead, and breathing suddenly feels easier again. The same way I put a hand on his when he had pneumonia. He was off school for a full month.
He lets his hand rest there, and I can tell that there is nowhere else he would rather be.
“Is it normal for it to take this long?” Hans whispers. Am I not dying fast enough? I feel like a burden. Like I’m stopping Hans and everyone else from getting on with all the other things they need to do.
After everything that happened with Buster, and the older I got, the more I realized I had nothing to gain from that man. I switched him off inside me. Turned my back on him and built a life of my own, as I wanted it to be. Despite all that, it never disappeared entirely, that desire to have him look at me. A look that said: Good job, Bo. It had
So when Mother called to say that the doctors had said he had only hours left, to ask if I wanted to come to the hospital, I said no. That I had to work. It was Monday, after all. And yet, when she called again that evening to say that he was dead, something inside me broke.
